


Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better

by Marta



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Birthday, Family, Gen, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-11
Updated: 2009-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:34:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marta/pseuds/Marta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old family tradition returns to haunt Imrahil.</p><p>First Place --- Humor (Family), 2009 MEFAs</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Giving Gifts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/162737) by [Marta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marta/pseuds/Marta). 



Imrahil climbed the steps to the dais carefully, clasping his granddaughter Míriel’s hand firmly for support.  _I am too old for this,_  he thought to himself – yet his oldest grandson did not turn ten every day, and he did still love a vigorous dance. The musicians struck up a lively saltarello, and Míriel looked at him imploringly.

“Off with you, child,” he grumbled in his best impression of a stodgy old man. Míriel, he could tell, was not fooled for a minute, but she ran off to join the dance gladly.

“It is a good party,” Amrothos mused.

Imrahil quirked an eyebrow at that. “You should have seen the galas your mother managed. Back at the millennium’s turn, she threw a Yule ball that they will talk of long after a king sits in Minas Tirith. Actors who played Corsairs, and mimes and minstrels, and a veritable menagerie in the garden. And that was before the war. Why –“ 

Imrahil cut off midsentence, his eyes immediately fixing on the man edging along the wall toward the dais. “Father, do you know him?” Elphir asked quietly, also staring plainly at the stranger. “Look how he holds his hands behind his back; he is hiding something, plainly.’”

Erchirion loosened his dagger – ceremonial but still quite sharp – in its sheath, but Amrothos looked unconcerned. “Do you truly expect mischief tonight?” he asked. “An assassin in party garb?” 

The youngest prince’s eyes twinkled a little, and Imrahil found the good mood contagious. Put like that, it did seem rather unlikely. Yet Amrothos’s easy manner was a bit unsettling, a little too casual. “You should be ever vigilant, in any case,” Imrahil said after a moment.

Amrothos just shrugged. “I am a child of the Fourth Age; ‘tis my prerogative.” He looked at the man again. “In any case, I recognize him from somewhere. I cannot place him, but I know his face.” That satisfied Imrahil, and he nodded to the guards standing at the edge of the dais, indicating that they should let the man approach. 

“Ah, but I  _do_  know him!” Amrothos said as the man approached. “That is Breglas. He was Uncle Denethor’s manservant, before the war. I would steal sweets from the kitchens sometimes, and often enough I met Breglas nursing a mug of tea.” 

Amrothos beamed brightly at the approaching man, and Breglas’s somber expression eased a little. Breglas crossed the remaining distance in a few long steps and bowed promptly to Imrahil. “May the next year be blessed, lord,” he said; the traditional greeting for such occasions, delivered with that perfect mix of civil disinterest and earnestness. 

That only made Imrahil more suspicious than he was before. To have Denethor’s old manservant appear in Dol Amroth was noteworthy enough. That this was the first time Breglas had been presented to him hinted of mischief, and for him to appear on his grandson’s birthday was positively ominous. He had not forgotten the many “gifts” he and Denethor had traded to mark their sons’ birthdays. Drums and flutes given to tone-deaf children. A glass habitat for frogs and lizards, all of which somehow ended up under Lothíriel’s pillow. Books of limericks and small catapults suitable for flinging bread across the able. ‘Twas a tradition Imhiriel had been glad to leave behind when Amrothos had grown too old. Yet Denethor had died nigh a decade ago. Surely not…

Breglas ceremoniously removed his hands from behind his back, revealing a squarish object covered in cloth. “My prior lord left me but one last request in his will,” Breglas said solemnly. There was not a touch of humor in his face, but Imrahil knew better than to trust that; the man had, after all, served under Denethor’s close scrutiny for decades. “He asked me to deliver a certain parcel to your fair principality when a son of your line next achieved his first decade.” 

He nodded to Imrahil, to show his respect, but then stepped aside and handed the parcel to Elphir. Elphir quickly untied the covering and held up – “A journal?” he asked, glancing in confusion between Imrahil and Breglas. 

Imrahil did not answer, but he had recognized it immediately. He remembered his childhood nanny writing in just such a book, recording his exploits and making sketches of him. ‘Twas a treasure trove of embarrassments, and his sons would make good use of it, Imrahil had no doubt. He wondered for a moment how Denethor had ever found it, but remembered almost at once how close Finduilas had been to the woman before she left for Minas Tirith. It was no great leap of imagination that the nanny would have shared it with her – and that Finduilas in turn would have showed it to her husband. Ah, but well-played, sir!

For a moment Breglas’s eyes sparkled with the faintest hint of amusement. Only for a moment – it was gone so quickly that Imrahil could hardly be sure his eyes had not tricked him – but from a servant of Denethor’s, such a glimpse was a mighty hint indeed. “My duty being discharged, I feel free to remind you: my current lord has a son, not much younger than your fine grandson. And the Prince Faramir has never been one to let old traditions die.” He bowed once more and, without another word, left the dais as he had come.

Imrahil watched the man leave and rubbed his thumb along his thin, deep in thought. Perhaps he had had too much wine that evening, perhaps he would see things differently come morning – and yet…

“Father, you didn’t!” Elphir cried beside him. He held the open journal against his chest, his face a cross between shock and amusement; Erchirion’s whole body shook with silent laughter.

The House of Húrin must pay, Imrahil decided. That gift may have been Denethor’s design, but it was Faramir who had given Breglas leave to come to Dol Amroth – and just now, the challenge of finding the perfect gift to best torment his nephew was alluring indeed.


	2. Notes

For those of you who are not familiar with Imrahil’s family, Elena Tiriel and the other HASA researchers have put together a nice [biography of Imrahil](http://martasfic.dreamwidth.org/%E2%80%9Dhttp://henneth-annun.net/resources/bios_view.cfm?SCID=49%E2%80%9D), complete with birthdates for most of the people mentioned here.

The one character not mentioned in that bio (or here, explicitly) is the birthday boy: Alphoros, Elphir’s son. He was born in 3017 T.A. according to HoMe XII. Faramir and Éowyn were married three years later, so it’s not impossible that they’d have a child only a few years younger than Alphoros.

Míriel is my own invention, as is Breglas.


End file.
